


let's just clear the air, could I ask?

by refuted



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: (kate is person a), F/F, Useless Gays, and person a is just a goddamn fool, the trope where person a keeps getting hurt and person b keeps trying to keep person a in one piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refuted/pseuds/refuted
Summary: In which Kate Bishop, disaster extraordinaire, learns about feelings and stuff.





	let's just clear the air, could I ask?

"I got it, I got it."

She doesn't really got it, got it, but she can make do just fine _thank you very much_ America Chavez.

America doesn't budge, grip firm on her chin as she ignores Kate's mumbling and continues to disinfect the stupidly big and stupidly bleeding wound along her temple. To be fair, she probably wouldn't have done it herself but also to be fair, it stings.

Kate licks the blood off her cracked lips, and America's eyes flutter the slightest bit down.

 

This is turning into a weird pattern.

Not so much the bleeding part because, ha.

"— _ah!"_

Stings.

America makes a face at her, kind of like she's sick of all her friends being so injurable, but Kate never asked for… whatever all this is, so. She tries again, nudging out of the hold America has on her. "Not my first rodeo, Chavez."

She lets Kate step back, taking a last look at the damage and exhaling loudly through her nose. She watches her for a moment. "You're not, like, trying to outdo Clint on the bandage count right?"

"Why, am I winning yet?"

America doesn't even roll her eyes, and it shouldn't but somehow it manages to make her stomach drop a little. America tilts her head, frowning. She hands Kate the alcohol pad, stained with red and brown, a bit of disappointment and some of Kate's pride. Her eyes begin to glow.

"See you around, Kate."

 

The first time isn't the last time, and Kate doesn't really pick up on it until she does, and it doesn't really seem to mean anything to her until it does.  

The first time goes like this.

A fucking grenade launcher!

That's all there is to it!

 

The slightly longer story starts with a typical corner market robbery that turns into a less typical corner market robbery.

"Kind of a step down from robbing the DNC, no?" Kate says at the guy with a glock and one of those ugly Nixon masks, harassing her sole takis provider for a quick score. Typical because it's the middle of a Friday and the cash register should be full of takis dollars and the cameras above the counter have been down for months. Less typical because, wait for it.

If Kate's life were whimsical and witty and broadcasted on an 8pm cable slot, you'd see the shopkeeper holding a scorecard up for her with a 6 written in big black marker, brow raised like she can do better, which she can but her day just started. She'll do better later. 

Nixon aims the gun at her.

She fires, picture perfect aim that disarms without actually hitting flesh and wow, Clint would be so proud. Kate thinks about how it's too bad the broken cameras couldn't catch that on film, though maybe she can get Clint to test dummy for her because she's pretty sure that's what good mentors do for their uber talented prodigies.

He yelps! gun dropping with a satisfying clack beside a duffel that Kate assumes was meant for cash, but turns out — and here's the kicker — to be where the man stored his goddamn mini bazooka. For just a moment, Kate appreciates the irony in the inability to disarm a man holding something so fucking big. She can definitely hit it, but isn't exactly sure how bazookas work — do they explode if someone shoots an arrow at it? Is the cash register guy too close if that actually happens?

She hesitates and so _he_ fires and Kate jumps mostly out of the way, but the blast definitely hits flesh. Kate can almost hear her body crack as the explosion sends her through the window, and she tastes a little blood coming up her throat when she manages to stumble back up.  

But she's fine, kind of.

He readies another shot, just as Kate notices the shard of storefront glass that's dug itself into her hip. This is also when she feels the blood running down her leg and the lightness filling her head.

Well.

Maybe, if she just passes out he'll just leave her alone.

She does, and he does, and later Kate wonders if she willed it all into fruition or if getting hurled out of a window just does that to a person.  

 

"I don't know her blood type so I stole a pouch of each," she hears.

Clint.

He pauses. "Should I get more?"

"I can do it," says a voice she doesn't recognize immediately. Urgent, a little annoyed. Nice that she'd do that for her though.  

So maybe Kate's dead, feeling everything and nothing at once, and then mostly everything all over again. Sounds like a purgatory kind of deal really.

Firm, precise hands tighten the bandages around her waist, and she's definitely not dead because— _fuck_.

Kate groans out of reflex, which hurts too, jesus.

A beat.

Kate keeps her eyes shut, but she can almost feel the stillness in the air. Briefly, she wonders how long she'd been out, how she ended up at Clint's. It occurs to her that he'll never let her live this down.

Eventually, someone cuts the silence. "She'll be fine." Nat, quiet but unphased. Slow, with the focus of someone concentrating on something, but even and calm and without a trace of the accent that she's heard slip under stress. She takes Kate's arm and wipes the crook of her elbow with something wet and cold, and the scent of alcohol goes right up her nose. "Come here," she says, not at Kate. "This one. Hold it up."

"Blood transfusion," Clint warns her sympathetically. "Keep those eyes closed Katie Kate."

"I hate needles," she says.

"Shouldn't have gotten yourself blown up then, Bishop."

Natasha never pulls her punches and she deserves that, but ouch.

"Hey, don't worry," Clint says, not to Kate and probably not to Nat. "Kid's too stubborn to go out so easily."

"'scuse you, not easy."

Belatedly, Kate realizes that it might be America, hovering next to Clint and offering to steal her a couple units of blood. If she weren't so preoccupied with the shooting pain in her ribs and the various assortment of cuts pulsing through her body, demanding attention, she might wonder what that's supposed to mean.

"He shot me with a gren— _fuck_!" Kate tries to say just as the needle goes in, but it sounds more like a struggled gurgle than a coherent formation of letters.

Clint snorts, but cuts himself off mid-exhale and Kate isn't sure she should take that as a good sign because, rude, or a bad sign because maybe they're all actually worried or something.

"Keep it still."

"Why does she look like she's about to croak?"

"I'm not..." Kate slurs, trailing off into a groan.

"I'll stay," maybe-America says before Kate passes out again.

 

Lucky's snoozing on top of her and Clint hasn't shooed him off yet — or maybe he has and Lucky's just persistent — and Kate takes these all as good signs. He's a welcome weight on her, soft and warm and solid, but he's also drooling through her shirt, and Kate isn't sure where that ultimately lands on the grand scale of nice and less nice. Either way, the urge to pee hits her fast and hard and she forgets the rest of it.  

"Futz," Kate says.

Lucky woofs.

Kate tries to steel herself for whatever stupid amount of pain she's going to feel when she tries to move, takes a deep and stuttered breath, and sits up. Lucky jerks up and hops off, digging into her stomach and knocking a glass of water from the coffee table. It splatters and breaks and Kate feels like she's probably bleeding again, but she's able to pull herself upright. Net positive.

She hears a creak in the floorboards behind her and almost tells Clint to come claim his dog already you heathen, when a voice that isn't Clint says, "Hey."

Lucky patters over to America, who's standing against the doorway to Clint's guest room/Kate's occasional bedroom. She pats him on the head, but never takes her gaze away from Kate, and if Kate weren't tripping balls (thank _you_ Natasha), she might even think that America's looking at her with an expression she'd call…soft _._ Her curls look willingly tamed in a loose ponytail and she's trademark Star Spangled from head to toe, denim shorts that fray off considerably high and a red and white tank that, when Kate takes a closer look, turns out to be a white tank spotted with dried blood.

Soft.

Well, softish.

"Get into a fight on your way here?" Kate tries lightly. It comes off rough and strained and Kate swallows dryly, eyeing the spilt water pooling over the floorboards.

America's brows furrow, before she looks down at the state of her clothing. She inhales, about to say something, but decides otherwise. America disappears into the kitchen. Kate hears the cupboard open and close, followed by glasses clinking and the sink running, and in the time it takes for America to reappear, it finally occurs to Kate that it's probably her blood ruining America's third favorite top.

"How long have you been here?"

America hands her the glass of water and glances at the microwave clock that Kate knows is an hour and seven minutes off because Clint never bothers to switch it in time for daylight savings ( _doesn't matter Katie, I'm always late_ ).

"About a day," she says. America scans the rest of her, lingering over the bandages that peek out from underneath Kate's post-Lucky-catapulting-off-of-her shirt. Aww, man, she's definitely bleeding again.

She kneels beside the couch, looking at Kate like she's waiting for permission. Kate nods, leaning back a little, and America lifts her shirt just high enough for both of them to see red.

"We should probably change these."

Kate imagines this.

America, lifting her shirt higher and higher and undressing her bandages and being gentle with her useless broken friend. America, movements careful and considerate and competent and so maybe she's into this a little bit.

Her cheeks flush and it's good America isn't looking at her because, wow, way to wear your libido on your face Bishop. Kate hums, swallowing the pocket of air in her throat. "I—have no idea where Clint keeps his first aid."

America's brows twitch, like she knows human trainwreck Clint Barton never keeps anything but his coffee in the same place twice. "The Black Widow left some supplies." She nods over to the get well soon kit on the kitchen table, complete with a fresh roll of gauze and a bottle of the good painkillers and aww, she really does care(!).

 

"You wanna stay," Kate asks after all is done and done, bandages redressed, floorboards paper towelled dry, ego shaky but intact. "Planet Earth marathon's about to start."

America hovers behind the couch with her backpack slung over one shoulder. She considers.

"Sorry Princess," she says after a beat. "...class."

"Your loss," Kate says, wondering what she means exactly by _class_. "Bet Earth 212 doesn't have meerkats like these. Feisty little assholes."

America punches a star-shaped portal in front of Clint's front door, luring Lucky back to Kate with his tail tucked between his legs. "Nice try," she says and then, over her shoulder, "You could just ask me, you know. Where I go."

The portal swallows her whole before Kate can try, but she saves the thought for next time.

 

The next time is a month later, when Kate's mostly figured out how to function again. The blast leaves a pretty sick scar along her waist, bumpy and red and still a little tender, but a soon-to-be excellent addition to the repertoire. Kate sticks to crop tops for the time being, because she hates feeling fabric rub against it and also because battle wounds.

A month is also how long it takes for Kate to get tired of waiting for America to text her.

**_Kate_** _: SOS_

**_Kate_** _: 911_

**_Kate_** _: I need you._

(She knows. A little desperate, but Kate's never half assed anything. (In recent history, at least.))

**_America_** _: ?_

**_Kate_** _: Too much pizza. Clint AWOL. Help._

**Read** 2:57 PM

America portals in half an hour later, while Kate's mid-bite into her third sausage and onion. She squawks, drawing a nice little smile out of America that makes her forget to be embarrassed. Kate drops the bite out of her mouth and back onto her plate and tilts her head toward the four large boxes on the kitchen counter.

"Pepperoni, mushroom and meatball, extra extra (Kate holds off on the last extra) cheese, and," Kate lifts her slice. "Help yourself."

"That's ambitious, even for you."

"Getting my appetite back, finally."

"Where's Clint?"

Kate shrugs.

When America doesn't respond and doesn't look like she's leaving her answer at that, Kate takes another bite of pizza and says as she chews, "What are your favorite pizza toppings?"

America walks over to the kitchen. She inspects the assortment and comes to sit next to Kate with an entire box on her lap. Mushroom and meatball. She sits cross-legged and holds a slice along her index and thumb, doesn't fold and doesn't eat crust first (thank god). "Earth 65 has a shop in Queens that does sliced ribeye and lion's mane. Haven't seen anything like it here yet." America takes a bite and starts to rub the grease off her fingers against the cardboard until Kate tosses her a napkin. "This is good though."

Kate nods like she knows what lion's mane is, and finishes her slice.

"Where do you go when you're not here?"

"University," America says and then, finally starting to take Kate's invite for the sort-of-date it's supposed to be, "What are you watching?"

"Uh." Kate blinks at her. "Not Keeping up with the Kardashians."

 

"I'm glad you're okay," America says eventually, at the TV, in a tone that tells Kate she's serious but don't make a big deal of it. Flat and direct and out of nowhere, like she's stating a fact. Kate is fine, and America likes that.

Kate considers.

It kind of is a big deal, though. A telling-Eli-all-about-this kind of big deal, which she's definitely gonna do.

For now, she just nods. Kate reaches across the incrementally decreased space between them on the couch to take America's hand and squeeze, and wow, it always surprises her how _warm_ she is.

America doesn't flinch away, doesn't look down, and doesn't say anything else. America brushes her thumb along Kate's fingernail, back and forth and back again, and so maybe she's ok with this, too.

They watch TV like that, unmoving for the next 10 minutes with their fingers intertwined, until crime. (Fuck! Crime!!)

They both hear gunshots a few blocks down, and America is already up and slipping into her battered Chucks before Kate catches up, snapping back to the reality where America let her hold her hand and is also about to leave.

Kate thinks about coming with. Her ribs are mostly healed and her stitches are long gone, so she won't risk bleeding again when she stretches to reach for the arrows in her quiver. That's like, 3/4 of the way to pre-explosion Kate, which is pretty good.

America beats her to it. "If I see you move from that couch I'll break your legs."

"Kind of defeats the purpose of letting me heal though."

America stands up after lacing her shoes, towering over Kate. She looks down at her like a dare.

Like she'll really fucking do it.

Kate swallows hard, shifting to cross her legs and smother the sudden pulse between them that doesn't go away until long after America jumps out of her window.  

 

She's getting her ass handed to her.

Granted, she's sorely outnumbered and coming off the world's most inconvenient flu and apparently the west coast bad guy handbook doesn't give a shit about the sick person mercy rule.  

Kate's able to incapacitate maybe six of the ten crooks in Madame Masque's latest hideout with her own homebrew assortment of net tipped arrowheads and a sweet ass sleep gas arrow that Kate stole as a goodbye gift to herself from Clint, but some lug shoots at her left hand, making her bleeding and bowless _and_ outnumbered _and_ probably getting sicker, come to think of it.

"This place is nasty," Kate says after she's disarmed him, catching a glimpse of the ceilings. She starts to feel abnormally hot, even after factoring in the evening's cardio. "You have mold! You could get sick!"

"Masque pays our health. Copay is really good." Goon 7 tells her just as he goes in for a right hook.

Kate dodges out of the way, nearly too late. Stupid mold. He stumbles, but pulls back just before his chin makes contact with Kate's foot. They circle each other for a few paces, and he seems way less out of breath than she is. From the corner of her eye, she can see Goon 8 emerging from another room with a bat, which is going to be trouble real fast.  

Goon 7 looks like he's favoring his left leg, which she could use to her advantage. She thinks about sweeping him to give her time to deal with the others, though she's not going to be much trouble herself with a hand out of commission, burning lungs, phlegm in her throat, and also the voice at the back of her head nagging about aspergillosis _goddammit_ google. Begrudgingly, she considers cutting her losses and booking it.

"She could at least splurge on a nicer hideout. Billionaire mastermind and all, doesn't seem like much of a stretch to lease a place in Brentwood or something."

"You try and compl—"

Kate sees a flash of light and hears a dull _knock._

He goes down, to his knees and then to the ground.

Behind him, America's eyes dim back to their normal brown. Her arm is outstretched, fingers splayed palm down. It almost looks like—

Did she just flick him out of consciousness? She totally flicked him out of consciousness.

"The hell?" Kate says, if only to stop herself from seeming too impressed.

 _The hell yourself_ America doesn't say out loud, but it's all in the way she once-overs Kate, brow raised and mouth curved a shade cavalier, before she flies off and takes care of the rest of Masque's men. Almost all of them. Kate's able to deal with bat guy, which brings her mook total to eight and her injury count to two. He gets a lucky swing at her arm (ok, so three) that sends a paralyzing shock to her fingers and starts to throb immediately, and Kate really hopes that America doesn't notice this all go down because she still can't appropriately balance her pride with her aversion to actually dying, and she isn't sure about how she feels about superpowered backup. She's got a lot on her mind, ok.

They're all some combination of groaning or passed out on the ground when America appears in front of her, ignoring the stupid, surprised look on Kate's face. Instead, she takes hold of Kate's wrist and examines where Goon 7's bullet had grazed her knuckles, which has conveniently started to sting almost unbearably.

She swears there's still a bit of adrenaline left in her, but now all she can think about is the bleeding mess where a handy (ha) chunk of skin used to be, and how America's touch scorches all around, radiating from where her fingers grasp around Kate's hand and out, pricking at the back of her neck, the tops of her ears.

"...in the neighborhood?" Kate tries, breaking what's become a heavy silence.

"Clint texted."

Judas.

"Said something about you kicking the hornet's nest, or whatever. He's a terrible speller. Aren't you sick?"

Kate takes her hand back. "I'm coming off it."

America frowns, and Kate recognizes this look. Kate recognizes this America, and her stomach tightens a little when she thinks about the last time she found her like this. She isn't sure she can pinpoint what it's all supposed to mean exactly, but she has an idea. "Thanks for the help."

America nods. She stuffs her hands into her pockets, rocking on the balls of her feet.

"You're making a habit out of this almost dying thing, you know," she murmurs at the ground, and something in the way she says that makes it all click. Kate tugs at America's shirt, pulls herself up on her toes, and kisses her.

 

(

"Thought so," Kate says when America kisses back, and America looks back at her in a way that says _I will leave you right this moment and never come back,_ which makes Kate reach out for her again and kiss her some more and tell America to take her home _please._

)

 

 **_Kate_** _:_ _Judas._

 **_Clint_** _:_ _What?_

**_Kate_** _: America. I'm not a damsel Clint._

**_Clint_** _:_   _she txted me first. Bucky said I should tell her.i told him you could handle yourself_

 **_Kate_** _:_   _What does Bucky have to do with this??_

 **_Clint_** _:_ _pizza and dog cops nigjt_

**_Clint_** _: night*_

**_Clint_** _:_   _nat sided with me for what its worth_

 

"Hey Katie Kate."

"Ok, one, I'm hurt that you're doing pizza and Dog Cops night without me. Two, I can't believe you told Mom and Dad that I needed help!"

In the background, Kate hears Gordon Ramsay straining with the effort to not use his adult yelling voice at a bunch of kids on TV. Gordon's talking about burgers, she thinks, and grill times and side choices, but Clint starts to say something and right, she was calling to yell.

"...telling them you said that."

"Huh?"

"You've seen this episode. The one with Gordon's kid and the mushrooms. Pay attention I was gloating about how I'm telling on you for calling Bucky _Dad._ "

Well, actually.

"Or is Nat our dad in all this?"

"Clint you piece of shit."

He sucks a breath in through his teeth, and for a brief, victorious moment she thinks the insult hit, but then she hears one of his arrowheads clatter against the table. Of course he's multi-tasking. She should be multi-tasking. She should be letting America give her a hickey while all of this is happening.

America has her legs kicked up onto the coffee table, rubbing Lucky's belly with one hand as she scrolls through Kate's Twitter feed with the other. Her brow perks up when she catches Kate looking over from the corner of her eye.

Kate pockets the idea for another time.

"Masque is a handful even when you aren't sick. I do it out of love."

Clint Barton is still a piece of shit, but he loves her and he admitted it and her anger fizzles from there. Anyway, she can't be that mad at him because Kate's bottom lip still stings pleasantly which, again, makes her think of America, and America's teeth, and America's —  

"...can I FaceTime Lucky?"

 

Kate learns things about America without really learning things about America. She figures out that America has free days on Tuesdays and Thursdays and will sometimes ditch her Multiverse history class on Friday mornings because _what's the point when you can time travel_ , so Kate makes a habit out of being up and ready in the AM for a walk to the grocery store and back with America and Lucky. Kate learns about the time America punched the shit out of Hitler and made friends with Peggy Carter, and Kate learns that America likes the Fast and Furious series because of course she does, and Kate learns that she and Captain America are pretty close. ( _I guess. You guess? What the hell how have you not introduced me yet I am an Avenger too? Because you'll embarrass us both Bishop. I...so? No one can not embarrass themselves in front of Captain America._ )

America still won't really tell Kate about her life before the Young Avengers and Kate never really knows what to do when America sometimes withdraws from her touch and goes silent for hours at a time but still lets her sit closer than normal on the couch and then eventually warms up again, initiating kisses and idly running her hand up and down Kate's leg and saying things like _Katie_ and _hon_ without an ounce of bite in them. Kate learns to read America without really understanding what it all means.

Baby steps, she supposes.

"Don't _babe_ me you traitor, I know you ate my Fritos."

"Kate."

She knows she's probably wrong.

Well.

She remembers eating her last bag precisely two words into the accusation, but she likes it when America humors her with an empty fight. It makes her miss Clint less, takes her mind off her mother.

"I'm gonna starve."

America hops onto the kitchen counter as Kate sifts through the food in her fridge, coming up for air only when she decides she's given up. She perches her chin on the open door, swaying back and forth along its hinge like a pendulum.

"That's gonna drive your electricity bill up," America says, if only to say something, looking at her like she knows a fight isn't going to help. Soft. A little pitiful, but mostly soft.

Kate learns that America's figuring out the best ways to talk to her when she's like this. Kate learns that America grows a little more patient around Anxious and Upset Kate, and still isn't the best at saying the right things, but she's… present.

(The first time Kate realizes it, she nearly cries.

She supposes this is what safety feels like.)

"Come here," America says, and she does, stepping into the v between America's legs and resting her hands along America's waist.

America runs her fingers through the hair behind Kate's ear, letting Kate push her cheek against her palm when it comes back down. America smells like the ocean breeze hand soap in Kate's bathroom and the mango shampoo that she only ever gets off planet, and Kate bites back the urge to ask about Captain America for the third time this week. Instead, she leans forward to press her forehead against America's chest, taking America's hand and leading it to the top of her head so she can keep doing the running her fingers through her hair thing.

Kate almost flinches when America makes her way back down, brushing over a healing, but tender bruise, right at the base of her shoulder. She doesn't remember how it happened, except for that it might have been dragon related. Has she told her about that yet? She should definitely work that in.

Kate doesn't flinch, but America's murmuring at her anyway, "Pretty sure you're never going to beat Clint on the bandage count. It wasn't a challenge."

"You're just jealous of my scars," she says into America's shirt, feeling her breath bounce back at her, warming her cheeks.

"I've been fighting since I was a kid. I don't bruise like you do but I've got lots of scars, Princess." America makes a trail back into her hair, short nails raking softly against her scalp. "I only have one of you."

 

Ok, so maybe Kate learns that America's getting better at saying the right things.

 

"I'm still not cooking for you."

Mostly.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, yes, this was almost 2 chapters but i don't know how to handle multiples of anything so we're gonna stick with 1 for now thank you for reading!
> 
> also! that one scars line was inspired by this comic feat. my other favorite disaster ship:  
> its-prettybent.tumblr.com/post/173971480996/young-reckless-and-very-human-another-emo


End file.
